


1440 Minutes

by Sparcck



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Time, Groundhog Day, M/M, Suddenly Handjobs, The Reichenbach Fall, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-05-13
Updated: 2012-05-13
Packaged: 2017-11-05 06:49:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,064
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/403572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sparcck/pseuds/Sparcck
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock wasn't supposed to die the day he jumped from the roof of St. Bart's. John has 1440 minutes to figure out what went wrong and how to fix it, or he'll have to wake up and do it all again.</p><p>Along the way, he figures some other stuff out, too. Eventually.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [ashes4twenty](http://ashes4twenty.livejournal.com) for [the Groundhog Day/Mystery Spot prompt](http://sherlockbbc-fic.livejournal.com/15638.html?thread=86977302) at the kink meme.

Later, in the hospital, John will look back and catalogue what could have made a difference. 

If only he had caught that first cab. If only the traffic hadn't been so bad. If only those buses hadn't been blocking the way and the laundry truck had been closer. If only John hadn't left his phone at the flat.

If only Sherlock hadn't jumped.

But now, just as John is scrambling out of the cab in time to see someone point at the top of St. Bart's, Sherlock does.

John's body goes numb, the ground drops away from under his feet, his limbs bloodless and just barely responding to his commands. He just manages to get out of the way of a bike messenger before he's clipped.

He shoves his way through a barrier of passers-by, "I'm a doctor," he shouts hoarsely, "Let me come through please, he's my friend," and drops to his knees. Sherlock is on his back, blood standing out on his white skin, matting his hair black. John puts a hand on Sherlock's throat. His pulse is thready. He's dying. 

No.

"I'm here, Sherlock," John says, his voice cracking, pull it together, John, pull yourself together, "It's okay. You're going to be okay." John feels like he's going to pass out, the world tips at a strange angle; how is this happening? it must be a dream, please god, be a dream. 

"Just hang on, okay, _hang on_ ," John tries desperately to remain upright. His normally capable hands are stupid with disbelief against the left side of Sherlock's skull, his, jesus god, caved in skull, assessing the extent of the damage, vainly trying to staunch the already alarmingly slow pulse of blood.

Sherlock's mouth works, and an unintelligible noise gurgles in his throat. 

"Don't try to talk," then, to the crowd that's finally backed away into a loose circle around them, "where is the fucking doctor, are we not at a _fucking_ hospital for Christ's sake!" His voice cracks. 

A slick of blood tracks from the right corner of Sherlock's mouth to his chin. His eyes roll in his head, bloodied eyelashes fluttering against his white cheeks. 

John feels as though his heart is trying to strangle him, and he manages to get out, "No, Sherlock, don't do this, please, don't do this to me, bastard, fucking _bastard_ , look at me, just hang on."

Sherlock looks at him, focuses for just a moment. 

"Please, Sherlock, just." He pushes Sherlock's fringe out of his eyes, gently, carefully. "It's been such a shit day, you know? Just once, give me a break, would you." 

Sherlock's mouth cants up on one side and John barks a little laugh, hysterical, "Just this one time."

The hospital doors bang open. By the time someone tries to pull him away, "I'm a doctor," he says, numbly, by rote, and lets them, "I'm a doctor," and two medics load Sherlock onto a stretcher, it's over.

Sherlock Holmes is dead.

*

John lets a nurse check him over, lets her give him an oxygen mask, because he's having trouble breathing and it seems easier than to argue with her.

He knows he's in shock. He knows later there'll be pain, and anger. But now he only feels a yawning maw opening in his chest, a black hole devouring his aching organs one by one, quietly, painlessly.

Unreal. Stupid and unreal and unfair and so _so_ stupid, the fucking bastard. Fucking selfish bastard.

If only John hadn't left. 

Mycroft arrives to identity the body. His face is a stone mask when he looks at John -- and John can suddenly see Sherlock in that mask, the familiar bone structure, the economical line of his mouth. His clear blue eyes. And he never, John never...

The black hole inside him pulses, slowly drains John's blood and replaces it with icewater, and John feels a swell of hatred like he's never felt in his life.

Mycroft looks away.

Anthea accompanies John home.

Home. Bed. Three of his stash of oxycodone that he never bothered to get rid of. One more for good luck. The quiet in the flat fills his ears with a dull, constant roar.

Even though he thinks he surely never will again, John sleeps.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This time, they have to sedate him.

John surfaces slowly. Blinks against the sun sliding in between the curtains.

His alarm has gone off, and on his nightstand Robin Lustig is listing off the top stories for the BBC World Service.

Downstairs, Sherlock is playing the violin. 

No. Not Sherlock. Never Sherlock, ever again. Oh. _Jesus_.

Panic claws it's way up his throat, and the maw gapes open in his chest again; only this time instead of being deep-space-cold it burns, spreading hot daggers into his belly, his palms, the soles of his feet.

He'll kill whoever's touching Sherlock's violin. 

Never quite as graceful as he would like, John gets so tangled up in his duvet as to whack his knee and then his forehead against the nightstand on his way from the bed to the floor.

Downstairs, the music stops. Starts up again. 

He hopes it _is_ Mycroft, he wants to smash his face in, for daring to look like him, to sound like him, to be alive while Sherlock is--

Isn't.

He mostly trips down the stairs. At the last step, he has to cling to the balustrade to remain upright.

Sherlock in his blue dressing gown, the one with the hole in the sleeve from the time, one of the times, he used John's gun for in-flat target practice. Violin still resting lightly against his chin, looking at him. "John," he says mildly.

"I." John stops. Not a ghost, right, no, right, not a ghost. That would be crazy. Would it? Crazier than what? Than a zombie? Than a hallucination? No, not crazier, just more improbable. More? Really, the most improbable.

"Impossible."

Sherlock lifts his eyebrows. "Late night?" He turns back to his composition, makes a notation. "I'm sorry, John, when inspiration hits, and so on. And honestly, I thought Katie was the kind to bring you back to hers."

"I've gone mad," John says, breathlessly. "I've gone completely mad." The sun limns Sherlock's shoulders through the robe, halos Sherlock's hair, picking out the ginger bits, blowing John's vision white and black and red. He goes to one knee, one palm on the cool hardwood floor.

When he loses consciousness, almost gratefully, it's not so far to fall.

*

He comes to in pretty much the same place he fell, only now there's a blanket on him. Which is. Thoughtful.

His mouth feels like it's been wiped out with a dusty rag, his knee hurts and his head is screaming.

"Oh, good, you're awake. Lestrade's on his way over. Kettle's just boiled." Sherlock crouches in front of him, steepling his fingers as a rest for his chin. Smug grin crinkling the corners of his eyes. "You know how I feel about drugs in this house, John, really. It's disrespectful."

"Fuck off," John croaks, "I'm not on drugs," and grabs for Sherlock's knee to haul himself upright. Keeps it there. "Had a nightmare to end all nightmares."

Sherlock hmms a little, looking at John's forehead.

"What?"

"You've got a--" he gestures at his own forehead.

John reaches up and feels the lump rising at his hairline. "Ah, yeah. Tough morning."

Sherlock gives him a look over, once, and rises. John's hand slides from his knee. He's never been so grateful for Sherlock's constant uninterestedness in what John considers inconvenient-in-a-flatmate behavior -- usually defined as shouting himself awake in the night.

Then again, Sherlock's not exactly the gold standard in that area, either.

John stands, stretches out the kink in his neck and shuffles to the kettle. Sherlock follows on his heels, which means Sherlock wants to go over something he's been thinking, some problem he's been working on. Sometimes it reminds John of his mum, how John would to follow her from room to room when he was small, talking at her endlessly, and she hmmed responses whenever he paused.

The realness of his nightmare, how much he truly believed Sherlock was...was. His mind skitters away from even saying it. Sherlock squeezes past him, rummaging in a drawer. It's all starting to seem silly in the light of day, and John's stomach unclenches slightly. "Have we got any bread?"

"Kidnapping," Sherlock responds, and a chill prickles the skin at the back of John's neck. 

"I'm sorry?" 

"Kidnapping." Sherlock wedges himself next to John, his hip in the small of John's back, reaching over him to a cupboard and pulling down two mugs. "Someone important, from the urgency of the call."

John puts his hands on the counter. "That was," he clears his throat, "in my dream last night. "

"So I guess I'm following your lead today," Sherlock grins, closed mouth, to himself as he spoons sugar into his mug, "that'll be a nice change." 

"Fuck off," John grumbles and goes to change.

*

It's not as funny later, when John is experiencing the longest period of deja vu he ever have in his life and it doesn't seem like it's going to end. Even when something slightly different from what he remembers happens, it all pulls itself back on track. 

For example: Greg shoving an envelope at him when they arrive and John turns it over in his hands and his stomach twists funnily when he sees the red wax seal. 

Donovan watches Sherlock as he flips through the files. She slides a light finger along the mantle, peeks under the odd piece of sheet music or under the cover of one of the stack of textbooks next to Sherlock's chair. 

She locks eyes with John, smiles tightly.

John clears his throat and hands the envelope to Sherlock who doesn't look at it before chucking it onto the desk. Overstuffed, it slides off and lands on the carpet.

"Isn't it great to be working with a celebrity?" Greg says, following Sherlock out, and for a moment, John and Donovan are alone. 

John gestures for her to go on ahead.

"Your hand is shaking," she says flatly, and walks out.

John follows, a bezoar of dread forming in his belly.

Later, much later, he'll remember his phone, perched on the armrest of his chair.

*

"I think I'm going crazy," John murmurs to Sherlock, in the dark of Kitty Reilly's apartment, sunk into her love seat. 

"This is hardly the craziest thing we've done."

"Ah, yeah, it is, and that's not even really the problem at this point, to be totally honest."

Sherlock is quiet for a second. "You've been distracted today."

"I'm--" John flaps a hand, "really feeling like I'm losing it. My dream--" 

"Deja vu," Sherlock interrupts. "Simple."

John laughs. "No. It's not."

"It is."

"It's not."

"Is."

"Sherlock."

"Looks, it's very simple. Your short term memory is overlapping with your long term memory and is storing the data before your brain can process it. Maybe you're tired. Maybe that bump on your head is worse than you thought."

"Sherlock."

"Either that of you're having a series of small seizures. And you're not an epileptic." John can feel his askance look, even in the pitch black. "Are you?"

"No, for God's sake--"

"Of course not, I would have noticed. So. Synaptic misfire it is."

John's spent the entire day in a daze, as things clicked into place around him -- little things he doesn't even remember doing until they're happening, every leap of logic Sherlock took. Even when things seemed off course: the envelope, John had thought, standing dumbly in the lab while Sherlock smashed a rack of empty vials and pulled at his hair, looking for what he was missing from the compunds found in the footprint, shouting at himself to think, _think_. 

"Breadcrumbs," John heard himself saying, thinking of the fat unopened envelope back at 221B. "Hansel and Gretel."

Sherlock's eyes lit up and he grabbed John's shoulders tight, bending until he was level with John, and he said, "Brilliant, brilliant man, you gorgeous man," and then let him go and went back to his microscope and then it all played out the way John remembered.

"Sherlock," he finds himself saying now, slowly, in the dark, because he doesn't know how to say it, "Sherlock, listen--"

A key scrapes against the unlocked door and the door opens and the light comes on and Kitty is there, looking at them, and it all plays out the way John remembers.

Except.

*

Except John doesn't go to see Mycroft. He tells Sherlock he is, because Sherlock insists (also, Sherlock bodily will not let him in the cab he hails and the cabbie threatens to call the police when John puts up a fight and Sherlock flashes his teeth at John and slams the door), but really he sits on the kerb and waits until Sherlock texts him to meet him at the lab. 

Except in the lab he doesn't know how to not leave when the phone rings with news that Mrs. Hudson has been shot and silently, everything slips into place one last time.

He's terrified that if he doesn't go, Mrs. Hudson will die. And that he's now in the position of having to choose between a very real voice telling him Mrs. Hudson is dying and the utter insanity of thinking he can predict the future.

"John," Sherlock says, looking at him almost gently, "you have to go."

"Come with me," John says, "please, she'll want you there."

"I'm busy."

"Busy!"

"Thinking," Sherlock says and John hates himself for not being sure if Sherlock is showing John the truth or lying to himself. 

The seconds bleed by and John can't stop thinking that this is lunacy, _lunacy_ , and what if Mrs. Hudson dies because John didn't know that he was prone to small epileptic seizures?

"Sod this," John says, and goes.

*

Sherlock jumps.

*

This time, they have to sedate him. He screams himself hoarse, screams and screams until he can taste blood in his throat and three broad-shouldered nurses hold him down while another gives him a hypo of Lorazepam. 

Don't remember this, John thinks, and feels heat from the drug flood his shoulders and throat and up the back of his head and the world narrows to a point and then.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So pull yourself together, soldier, because today isn't yesterday. Today will be different.
> 
> Today, John's going to pull it all off track.

"...the BBC World Service, I'm Robin Lustig, for Newshour. Coming up, with Syrian opposition forces again under sustained attack, Russia insists..."

John sits, literally, bolt upright in bed, one second asleep and the next awake. 

Downstairs, Sherlock is playing the violin.

"...the National Front in France broaden its appeal? A source inside the Sun--"

John reaches over and, calmly of course, turns off his alarm.

He sits for a moment, listens to Sherlock playing the violin. Because it is Sherlock. John doesn't know how, yesterday, he thought it could have been Mycroft. 

Except. Well, that wasn't yesterday, was it? It's today.

He swallows hard around what feels like a peach pit stuck in his throat, remembers the taste of blood after he screamed until he literally couldn't make a sound anymore. Almost like an aftertaste, there's a metallic tinge on John's tongue and his soft palette feels numb.

The beginnings of a panic attack. 

John puts his head between his knees, breathes deeply, slowly, counting to eight on each inhale and exhale. The music a strange, sad metronome, kept in time by Sherlock's long, strong arm, his deft brain that John had tried desperately to hold inside Sherlock's skull when.

Can't do it again, he thinks, forcing air out of his lungs before he passes out, please, I _cannot_. 

He stands too fast and his leg buckles, he whacks his head against the nightstand.

He laughs a little wildly, holding a palm flat against his forehead, "well that one at least was avoidable, wasn't it, Johnny."

Downstairs, the music stops. Starts up again.

He'll just tell him. He'll tell Sherlock what's happened. What's happening. He'll find it fascinating, right, he'll unravel it and fix it and everything will be okay.

He thinks of Sherlock as he is right now, in the blue dressing gown with the hole in the sleeve, eyes closed, brows knitted in concentration, usually one step ahead of everyone, but for right now the music is all and he has no idea about Richard Brook or the expose or his arrest or the hitmen, no idea that something is waiting for him at St. Bart's, something that will push him, literally, over the edge.

But John does.

So pull yourself together, soldier, because today isn't yesterday. Today will be different.

Today, John's going to pull it all off track. 

*

When he gets downstairs, Sherlock turns to look at him (blue dressing gown, hole in sleeve, mess of hair backlit red by the mid-morning sun, right, John had forgotten about that) and pauses in playing. "Late night?" He turns back to his composition, makes a notation. "I'm sorry, John, when inspiration hits, and so on. And honestly, I thought Katie was the kind to bring you back to hers."

"I." John stops, clears his throat. The girl he met down the pub two nights ago-slash-last night feels like she belongs in a different story altogether. A different dimension. Sherlock is staring at him, say something, idiot, stop being so suspicious. "Have we got any bread?" 

Dammit.

"Hm." Sherlock narrows his eyes. "John, you've got a--" and he gestures to his own forehead.

John reaches up, but snatches his hand back down before he can come into contact with the lump rising at his hairline.

Sherlock is staring at him, amusedly. 

John busies himself shuffling the paper back into order on the desk. "Go back to your composing, don't let me stop you." Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlocks phone. He can buy time, if Greg can't reach him. "I'll run out to Tesco's."

Sherlock hmms again, closes his eyes and draws his bow across the strings gently, mournfully, and John's heart twists. 

He retreats to his room to change, Sherlock's phone a hot coal in his robe pocket. 

*

On his way down the stairs, Sherlock says, "money, too, we're out" and John stops, one arm in his jacket.

The ATM. The car. Mycroft.

No, John thinks, a surgical strike is what's needed, and shrugs his jacket on, smoothes it over the lump of the gun tucked into his waistband.

"Right," he says, a little belatedly, and Sherlock is looking at him, a red mark on his chin where the violin rested. John smiles, "Back in a bit."

Downstairs, outside, he allows himself to look back and Sherlock has twitched aside the curtain, his face a pale smudge against the darkened glass.

He wonders if Sherlock is already figuring it out, how much time it gives him.

*

He breaks into Kitty Reilly's apartment fairly easily, but once he's in he sort of has no idea what to do next. 

Also, and probably more importantly, he's not sure where in the thread of things he's come in -- has Rich Brook given her the scoop yet? Is she still interviewing him? Will they come home together or is Moriarty already living here? 

This is why Sherlock usually takes care of these things, he supposes. He didn't so much think this through.

To pass the time he sorts through Kitty's desk, which is almost as haphazard as theirs. Packets of nicotine lozenges and notes scribbled in shorthand and some surveillance photos...

There's the creak of a foot on a stair and John turns to see Moriarty standing on the third step, half in his slouchy Rich Brook persona, his mouth an honest-to-goodness 'o' of surprise. 

"Johnny boy," he says slowly, and his mouth curls into a serpentine smile, his head weaving a little. "I'm not ashamed to say, this is a bit of a shocking turn of events."

John's pointing his gun directly at him, although his doesn't actually remember taking it out. 

"Jim," John says and Moriarty laughs, completely out of character.

"Oh, I _love_ it! This is slightly earlier than I had intended, and it's not as interesting without the reporter here. I assume tall, dark and psychopathic is somewhere nearby?" He all but hops down the rest of the stairs.

John doesn't respond, flicks the safety off. Inside his coat pocket, Sherlock's phone pings with a text.

Moriarty raises his eyebrows. "D'you need to get that? Sherlock's not going to want to be kept waiting."

"Don't say-- Shut your mouth. Or I'll kill you."

Moriarty's smile is well into unpleasant and he takes a sildling step towards John. "You'll kill me anyway."

John blinks. Yes. "Yes." Sherlock's phone pings again.

"Sherlock doesn't know you're here. Does he?"

John is across the room in three strides, gun dug into Moriarty's forehead. "I told you. To shut. Your. Mouth."

Moriarty licks his lips, puts his hands up. He looks at some spot over John's shoulder.

"If I kill you now," John says, "Sherlock would be safe."

He laughs, low and almost seductive and John's stomach turns.

"What," John says, " _What?_ "

A snap, like a Christmas cracker, a silenced sniper bullet, and John looks down to see blood bloom on his chest before he even feels the pain.

He staggers forward, into Moriarty's waiting arms. 

"A sniper just for you, gorgeous."

In his pocket, Sherlock's phone pings and pings.

Moriarty lowers John to the floor, slides out the phone and presses his mouth to John's forehead. 

John can feel hot tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. 

Please, he thinks, let this be it. Let Sherlock be okay.

"Shh, now. No need for him to find out about this quite yet, wouldn't you say? Besides, here's a little secret -- I probably would have killed you anyway."

John's vision dims, a rushing noise fills his ears and the world blinks out.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John catches Sherlock's eye and shrugs. At least he can still get turned on, even in the midst of either having a nervous breakdown or being the only man who can save his best friend's life.

Downstairs, Sherlock is playing the violin.

For a moment, John is torn between laughing and crying, but in the end, he just covers his face with his hands and breathes into his palms. 

So it turns out he can die, although, exactly as he had remembered dying feeling when he was bleeding out into the dust in Kandahar, it's really painful and terrifying and not something he cares to repeat. 

This time, then, he'll have to be more careful. 

He would have loved to start by not bashing his head against his nightstand. But John Watson has learned to roll with things.

*

He finds it impossible to ignore the laser of Sherlock's gaze boring a hole in his head while he putters around the kitchen, attempting his best impression at normal. Yesterday, he charged out of the apartment without really thinking it through. 

And, if he's being totally honest, he hesitated. He should have killed Moriarty when he had the drop on him. He knew he could -- and maybe that's why he didn't. Because when he looked inside himself, he saw something black and ugly. 

Killing Moriarty wouldn't just be preventing Sherlock's death. It would be revenge. And John had felt such an electric thrill run through him at the thought that he hesitated, just one small moment. 

"John." Sherlock is suddenly there with him, crowding him against the counter. 

"Hm."

Sherlock reaches around him and switches the kettle off. "Where are you, John?"

John swallows. He knows there's no way he can lie to Sherlock, pretend that there's nothing wrong. "Leave it alone."

"I did think Katie would be the kind to bring you back to hers. You must be disappointed." Sherlock's tone is mildly teasing. And not just a little smug.

It's the smugness that does it. "If you must know, we did, in fact, go back to hers."

Sherlock's eyes narrow, searching him for reasons why he didn't stay over.

He won't find them, John knows. He might have done, three days ago, the first time John had woken up in his own bed, slightly hungover. Katie had been lovely, younger than him by a decade with full hips, and breasts that had strained against the lacy bra she wore when John finally got her blouse off. 

They had gotten each other off on her couch: John had barely got his jeans unbuttoned before she was on him, licking her palm and then her hot little hand curled around his dick; afterwards he had rucked up her skirt and gone down on her, kneeling on her bare floorboards with her thighs over his shoulders and she had tasted amazing. And afterwards he had made excuses, came home to see Sherlock asleep on their couch, or at least his eyes were closed and he hadn't moved when John came in, and John had stood there a moment and just looked at him.

He shakes his head a little, shifting uncomfortably. Ridiculous that his prick should be half hard, when last night he hadn't actually gotten off with anyone, he had actually been shot in the back and died with Jim Moriarty looking at him like he was dinner. 

Sherlock blinks and his nostrils flare and John knows his ears are red now, especially when Sherlock's eyes flicker down, quickly, where John knows he can see his, thankfully, flagging hard-on.

John catches Sherlock's eye and shrugs. At least he can still get turned on, even in the midst of either having a nervous breakdown or being the only man who can save his best friend's life. John laughs a little, sheepishly, and relief floods him when Sherlock laughs, too, deep in his chest. 

"Out of milk," Sherlock says, reaching over him to snag two mugs.

John feels as though a bucket of ice water has been poured over his head. "Right," he says, dividing two teabags between the mugs. "I'll run down to Tesco's."

When he looks up, Sherlock is looking at him again, searching his face. 

"Sherlock," John says, heart suddenly hammering, "I said leave it."

"As you like." Sherlock suddenly reaches out and John grabs his wrist just as two fingertips brush against his forehead. "What," John says, and Sherlock says, "You've got a--" and John lets go his wrist, gingerly touching the lump rising at his hairline. 

"Oh."

Sherlock turns and sweeps out of the kitchen. "Also we need money," he calls back, and then John can hear him testing chords on his violin. 

"Right," John murmurs, and fixes them tea.

*

He showers, dresses (gun tucked into his waistband in the small of his back). Sherlock is sitting in his chair doing the crossword puzzle, the same cup of tea John had made earlier untouched at his elbow. He seems to be paused, a sight John isn't used to. Usually, Sherlock completes the puzzle in one go, without stopping, but now the pen is suspended over the paper, and Sherlock is staring at it almost blankly. It's one of those many times when John has no idea what's happening inside that head of his.

Anxiety threads its way up John's spine, and he wonders, suddenly, if this is how he left Sherlock the first day. If there's something he should have seen that would have stopped Sherlock from jumping, if he's looking at it now.

He clears his throat.

"Heading out," Sherlock says, not a question, not looking up from his crossword. 

"Yup, ah, would you rather I stay?"

Sherlock doesn't answer, but his pen starts moving.

John stands awkwardly for another moment. "Right, then. Back in a bit."

He thinks of Mycroft again when he passes the ATM he used three days ago, but dismisses it. What would he tell him? Listen, I'm stuck in some sort of Groundhog Day situation, and I can't figure out what I'm supposed to figure out that will let me out of the loop. Also, by early tomorrow, your brother will have leapt to his death. A little help?

He decides he needs one more try at Moriarty -- now that he knows there's a sniper, he'll be more careful. Sneakier.

He cabs it to Kitty Reilly's and stands outside looking up at her flat. No movement inside, no flutter of curtains. He takes a minute to look around, try to see where the sniper would have been hidden. He sees no fewer than three clear lines of sight to Kitty's front window that could easily secret a sniper. He has no idea if he's being watched right now, but he figures there's no reason he would be. They don't know he's coming, so they wouldn't be looking.

He decides to go up the front way, so as to not alert anyone who might be watching other, more suspicious entries. He makes short work of Kitty's lock, and eases himself in quietly.

He stands on the second step of the stairs to the bedroom, waiting. John has his gun in his hand, but he won't use it, he tells himself, then amends, well, unless it's absolutely necessary.

HIs body feels steady, quiet, and when he hears the door to the bathroom open he clears the last two stairs in one and brings the gun up in one smooth movement. Moriarty looks surprised. And not a little delighted. 

"My, my, what's this?" he says, "Must be my lucky day," and John flicks the safety off. 

"Shut up. Shut up, not one word."

Moriarty smiles. John's never noticed how tired he looks, how thin the skin around his eyes is, but his eyes are alert, shining black and unease creeps into John's belly.

"You're coming with me," John says, motioning with the gun. "Walk ahead of me."

Moriarty holds out his hands and tilts his head, innocently. "Don't you want to cuff me. Make sure I can't try any funny business. You did get the drop on me, I hate to admit. You don't want to waste that, do you?"

John laughs hollowly. Coverage clear up to the bedroom narrows the potential sniper nest options down to one. "So that your sniper can get a better look at me? Ah, no thanks. You can come over here, and be quick about it."

That smile only widens, now showing all his teeth. "Well now, gorgeous. How on earth have you figured that bit out? Brains as well as brawn? Or is there something else."

John feels the impulse the pull the trigger so strongly he has to take a breath through his nose, exhale slowly. The unease has become full-blown dread. "Shut your _fucking_ mouth. Hands on your head. In front of me now."

Moriarty's shrug says, fine, have it your way, and he laces his fingers together on the back of his head. He stands with his back to John, and John puts one hand on Moriarty's shoulder to guide him forward, muzzle of the gun snug in Moriarty's back.

"You know, John," Moriarty starts, but John digs his fingers hard into the cap of Moriarty's shoulder. 

"Just give me a reason," John says, his voice rough. "I don't know why you've chosen Sherlock to do this to, but you really should have quit while you were ahead."

Moriarty laughs, low. "Jealous?"

John shoves him out the front door into the hall and compresses his lips into a hard line. 

"Or maybe you're jealous of me? Because Sherlock and I share something special."

John refuses to rise to the bait, although he can feel anger banding his chest and threatening to squeeze the air from his lungs.

"But maybe I just haven't been looking at you, John. Thought you were just arm candy." Moriarty's head weaves a bit. "Though I do wonder just where you think we're going to go."

John smiles. "When we ran into each other on the street, Jim, you attacked me, unprovoked, leaving me this lovely great lump on my head."

They're outside on the street now, John keeping out of eyeline of the house two doors down, with the unobstructed view of Kitty's front and side windows. 

"So we're visiting the local Met, yes, I understand. And how do you plan on explaining the gun in your hand."

John hadn't actually got that far -- he figures the lack of real sleep is starting to get to him. He shrugs and Moriarty laughs again. 

"Cheeky, charming bastard."

"I do try."

"But you should know, John. My man is very, very good."

John feels a prickle on the back of his neck before he hears the crack.

Oh, for


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because even when Moriarty kidnapped John, strapped him into semtex and sent him to his certain death, he never looked at him, not really. Never cared that he was anyone other than Sherlock's weakness. John has never had the full intensity of a laser beam stare that almost rivals Sherlock's trained on him, a laser powered by complete, methodical madness.

_Fuck_ , John thinks, blinking against the sun. 

He lays and listens to Newshour's top stories, mingling with the sound of Sherlock playing downstairs.

Okay. Just the one more time.

*

Now that he knows where the sniper is, he takes a cab one block over and slips through the fence into the garden of the flats across from Kitty's.

Up the lattice work, and oh, this was easier when he was in his twenties. Just as he suspected, there he is; what he was not expecting was the black overcoat with the collar turned up and mess of dark hair. For a second, John has to blink hard because if he squinted he would look exactly like Sherlock. 

He's been foolish, been an idealist. 

It's either them or Sherlock. 

He clears his throat and the sniper turns. 

For a moment they look at each other, and John feels like the man is looking through him, somehow, there's a look almost like understanding on his face. The sniper raises two fingers and touches them to his forehead in a salute. 

One clean shot, through his forehead, and he drops.

The sound of the gunshot echoes in the quiet neighborhood. John is hoping it'll be taken for a backfiring car. 

Back down the lattice work, and _oh_ , this _really_ was easier when he was in his twenties. Across the street and up the stairs, quick, before Moriarty realizes what he's heard. 

He picks the lock and eases in the door open, reveals Moriarty, standing there, smiling at him. 

"Hullo, John."

John tries to bring his gun up, but it falls from his nerveless fingers. He looks down, and there's Moriarty's hand, holding a knife, buried in his belly.

Moriarty laughs, softly, against the side of John's head. "It was a good run. But I told you before, Johnny boy, I would have killed you anyway. I'll always kill you. Every time."

"You--" John bunches the front of Moriarty's shirt in his fist, stuggling to stay upright. "You--you never said--"

Moriarty tsks, his head weaving, and he twists the knife in John's belly, one arms sliding around John's waist, his hand settling into the small of John's back. John wants to struggle, but everything is upside down, the world tilting around him again, the way it did the first time he saw Sherlock jump. 

"I did, gorgeous, I did." Moriarty's face is very serious now, "come on, think. You remember." His cold, reptilian face terrifies John more than dying does.

Because even when he kidnapped John, strapped him into semtex and sent him to his certain death, he never looked at him, not really. Never cared that he was anyone other than Sherlock's weakness. John has never had the full intensity of a laser beam stare that almost rivals Sherlock's trained on him, a laser powered by complete, methodical madness.

Because John does remember, even though he knows his brain is winding down as his heart slows, blood not getting where it needs to go to keep him alert. He told John right before the first time he killed John. Only that one time. Days ago.

"You--" John grinds out, blood in his mouth, and he feels, again, the hot sting of tears pricking the backs of his eyes, "You--doing this..." 

"Mm, don't I wish." Moriarty lets him slump to the floor, sliding John's gun out from his waistband. "Alas, I'm merely taking advantage." He stands over John, his mouth a thin, hard line, those black eyes looking at him like it's the first time he's ever seem him; flicks off the safety and John makes a noise that he hopes he will wake up to feel ashamed of later.

"Sleep tight, Dr. Watson. See you tomorrow."

He pulls the trigger, and John


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Almost two years of being forgotten at crime scenes, being forcibly shoved from cabs, and takeaway going cold on the counter because he never texted to say he wouldn't be home. Of course. Why would Sherlock tell him, when he could leave him behind instead.

blinks, and has to breathe deeply because if he doesn't he'll throw up. 

Well, this is the wrong tack, clearly, and he presses the heels of his hands to his forehead. It doesn't get any easier to be happily murdered three days in a row, it turns out.

And Moriarty knows. As though it couldn't get worse. Not only does John have to somehow outwit Sherlock Holmes, but he has to do it while a literal psychopath waits for him around every corner.

For the first time, John wonders if he's only just now started remembering that this day is repeating. What if this has been happening for weeks, months, and John has just woken up to it? 

"...source inside the Sun says that internet phenomenon Detective Sherlock Holmes isn't quite who he says he is."

John sits up and slaps off his radio and in the sudden silence can hear Sherlock, downstairs, playing the violin. 

He takes a moment, just a moment, to listen.

"Okay, John," he says aloud. Once more into the fray. He climbs out of bed on the other side, avoiding his nightstand and making it out of the room without bashing his head in.

A small win. He'll take it. 

*

Not sure what his next move should be and suddenly feeling like he's being watched around every turn, when Sherlock says, "we need money", John decides he'll see Mycroft. By the time John had seen him the first time, the damage had been done, he had already told Moriarty everything. 

He stands at the ATM for a ridiculously long time before he finally looks up at the CCTV camera above the bank and spreads his hands. "Well?" he says, and a woman approaching in a red raincoat unsubtly gives him a sidelong glance normally reserved for suspicious-looking loiterers and veers off the kerb, quickly crossing to the other side of the street.

A moment later, a black sedan pulls up and John opens the door himself, sliding in next to a slightly sour looking Anthea. 

"Hullo," John says after a moment, and notices that the dress she's wearing is the same one she was and would be and might still be (stop it, John) wearing later at the hospital when she took him home. He suddenly remembers her warm hand between his shoulder blades as she helped him into the car but when he looks at her now she's tapping away at her Blackberry as though he doesn't exist and has probably already forgotten what he looks like.

When the car pulls up in front of the Diogenes Club, John opens the door to get out but pauses for a moment and looks back at her. "Thanks," he says, and she hms and glances up at him quickly then back to her Blackberry.

He doesn't slam the door as hard as he usually would.

Inside he heads for Mycroft's study, and when security tries to stop him he lets one get close enough to put his mouth to his ear and says, "I will shout this bloody place to the ground if you don't let me through."

"Let him." Mycroft is standing at the open door to his study. He inclines his head towards the man John shoves away from him. It must be some sort of secret code because without a sound both men are suddenly gone, barely a whisper of their shoes on the carpet as they pull the doors to the anteroom closed behind them.

John picks up the folders next to the club chair he sat in the first time round. "Why did you really want me here?" he says, flipping idly through grainy surveillance photos of the assassins currently populating Baker Street. There's the man that will get shot after he saves them from the bus Sherlock shoves them in front of. There's the one that will be dead before John even gets there, and Sherlock will be so rattled John will feel the first real thread of fear that things might not be okay.

"If I recall," Mycroft says mildly, pouring himself a finger of scotch, "you were the one that asked for this meeting."

John laughs without humor and waves the files at him. "No, no, you were waiting for me. And you were taking too long."

The polite smile dissolves from Mycroft's face and his piercing, colorless stare is identical to Sherlock's. "Humor me."

"No." He chucks down the files and they spill out onto the floor. "You humor me. Your brother's life is in danger and not from some rented out assassins."

Mycroft lowers himself into his chair and balances the his glass on his knee, looking up at John, giving John the position of power. "Moriarty," he says.

"Of bloody course Moriarty! What did you think would happen after you fed him Sherlock's entire life story? Did you think he would use it to make a lovely scrapbook for you both?"

Mycroft's face is stone. "Does Sherlock know?"

The long-suffering sign that escapes him is one John can't help, an involuntary reaction to Holmes' family obtuseness. John drops down into the chair opposite. "Both of you are ridiculous. No, Sherlock doesn't know, but he should."

"I've spent my whole life looking after him, you know." Mycroft smiles a little, looking down into his glass. "He would never understand this."

" _I_ certainly don't," John says, not uncharitably, thinking of how deceptively fragile Sherlock looks, "but I think Sherlock might."

Mycroft shakes his head. "Do you know," he pauses a moment, looking at some point over John's shoulder before shifting his gaze back to John's and smiling that odd, Holmesian smile, "how many times I've almost lost him? How many times I've been just in time to pull him back from the brink?

"No, I can't tell him now. It would destroy all his faith in me."

John blinks. "He doesn't have any faith in you."

Mycroft is unblinking. "I'm his brother."

John feels even more twisted up than when he came in, now thinking of Harry and everything she knows he'd do for her. "And Moriarty will kill him anyway."

Mycroft's mouth moves into that same small, sad smile again. After a moment, he drains his scotch and gently puts the glass down on the gilt side table. "I don't think Sherlock's the one in danger. John." 

They stare at each other as John's brain clicks along and his mouth moves but no sound comes out. Then Mycroft stands. "You'd better go."

John lets himself be ushered out and deposited on the front steps. A light, misting rain has started, but he lets himself stand in it for a moment, wondering, before getting back into the black car and letting himself be taken home.

*

John spends the day in a blur, trying to puzzle through what Mycroft was trying to tell him -- because he must have been trying to tell him something, sometimes the both of them forgot that ordinary folk needed a bit more connective tissue to keep up with their thought processes.

And he watches Sherlock. Is it his imagination that he's deliberately not looking at him? He's hip-deep in case. but there's something he can't put his finger on that he chalks up to, well, being the only one in the room, for once, who knows what's actually going on.

If Sherlock isn't the one in danger, who is?

Sherlock catches his eye and smiles tightly. John smiles back, uncertainly, and then Sherlock's eye join in, crinkling at the corners, the left side of his mouth curling indulgently. 

John shakes his head and goes back to pretending to flip through crime scene photos.

*

"Something has to give here, Sherlock."

They're alone in the flat, but John can still feel Greg in it, having just asked Sherlock to come down to the station until they could clear up any doubts. The threat of what comes next is pressing on John's shoulders.

Sherlock, having found the mini camera, everything on schedule then, is at his laptop, fiddling with the wifi, and looks up in surprise when John takes the camera out of his hand. "John," he says, quietly, and John drops the camera on the floor, grinding his heel down into it until he feels it splinter and give way.

"They're going to come back with a warrant," he says.

Sherlock lifts one eyebrow. "Yes. I had assumed, however, you'd have more faith in Lestrade."

"I usually do." John laughs hollowly and falls into his chair, scrubbing a hand over the back of his head. "It's been a really long..." week, John almost says, then recovers, "day".

"It has." 

"And if we don't start playing by the Yarders' rules, we're going to end up playing by Moriarty's. And in all our dealings with him, that's never got us very far."

Sherlock raises an eyebrow at him. "Clever, John." 

John bristles. He must really be an idiot, a little bit of foreknowledge that he doesn't even know how to use and everyone's acting surprised that he can strong two thoughts together. "Don't sound so shocked."

One thin shoulder rises in a half shrug. "I'm not shocked. Just beginning to suspect you have information I don't."

John closes his eyes. "Ha bloody ha. I might not be a genius, but when I burn my hand on a hot stove I know not to touch it again."

When he opens them again, Sherlock is crouching in front of him.

"I'm serious, Sherlock."

"Yes, very serious, I know." Sherlock tilts his head, "You've got a--" and he reaches out, his thumb ghosting over the sore spot at John's hairline, palm radiating heat against John's ear.

John hisses in a breath and jerks his head back; four long fingertips hold him in place, mapping four points across John's skull above his ear.

Sherlock's thumb pushes back his hair, pale eyes narrowing as he examines the lump rising there.

"From," John's throat clicks when he swallows, "ah, from the cab."

"Mm, I saw the door hit you. I told you I wanted to ride alone." John opens his mouth but before he can speak Sherlock offers, "it looked more embarrassing than painful."

John huffs a little laugh. "Halfway between at least."

"But not life-threatening, certainly." The corner of Sherlock's mouth lifts, but it doesn't quite reach sardonic, his cool fingertips brushing lightly over the shell of John's ear and John says, "No," and his stomach does a strange twist, rearranging his insides so his heart migrates to the base of his throat.

Sherlock has a particular look on his face, a look that John recognizes from crime scenes -- examining, cataloguing, storing. His eyes catch on John's, and John sees something, some sadness that he doesn't recognize. The moment stretches out, Sherlock's palm slipping to the nape of John's neck, and the light on the desk halos Sherlock's hair, picking out all the ginger bits and John feels the maw yawning open inside him.

Do you understand, Sherlock's eyes say, but not about Moriarty, not about the case.

John ought to stop him before he says something he can't take back. Something that has John's stomach tied up in a hot knot of anticipation, his heart beating hard in his throat and wrists. 

He ought.

"Sherlock," John's voice is rough when he speaks.

"John," Sherlock parrots back, but without any sting, and John wonders suddenly, selfishly, if they could play out an entire life in this one scene, a little different every time they live it. Sherlock is quick, so quick, he'd catch up to John's end of the conversation, even if John's the only one that remembers what happened the day before.

It's suddenly too much, John can see all the strings of the universe spooling out in front of him, and it's his choices that decide which get cut and which gets threaded. He's frozen in an agony of indecision and Sherlock sees it but -- not for the first time, Sherlock Holmes fans the world over would be shocked to hear -- misinterprets. 

Sherlock's hand slides off John's nape and his face shutters as he sighs. John can feel his breath against his cheek. "You're wondering, too."

"No," John says, but it comes out almost as a question.

Sherlock stands. "Can't you see what's going on here? How he's gotten in your head?"

John stands, too, so quickly that his formerly not-actually-bad leg almost folds beneath him. "I can see everything you can't, Sherlock. I can see that you've made your decision, that you'll run, and you think Moriarty doesn't already know it. I can see that you think you need to do this alone, but you don't. I can see that he's gotten into your head, gotten under your skin, and it's making you _stupid_ \--"

Sherlock is grabbing at his scarf, tying it jerkily around his neck. "So you want me to compromise everything, give him exactly what he wants--"

"Oh, for god's sake, Sherlock, don't be so dramatic."

"Don't worry, John, I won't drag you down with me."

"Stop it!" John crosses to Sherlock in two steps, his blood pumping so hard through his brain he feels like he can see, hear and feel in triplicate. "Moriarty is counting on you managing to alienate me. And it won't happen, Sherlock, can't happen." He crowds into Sherlock's personal space, pulls Sherlock's coat from his hands. "It cannot happen. Do you understand?"

Sherlock just looks at him, two spots of color burning on those damned high cheekbones. "John," he says, thickly, and John feels something between them suspended, waiting for one of them to push, just a little, then John can hear sirens outside, pulling up.

Sherlock tugs his coat from John's bloodless fingers and shrugs it on. "I won't go willingly, John. You can come with me or you can stay."

Downstairs, Mrs. Hudson is fretting, her voice rising, as Lestrade and his men come up the stairs. John sighs. "Dibs on the Chief Super."

Sherlock smiles and god help him, John can't help but smile back.

*

Sherlock doesn't take John with him, though. For some reason -- connect it, John, what's different -- the thread unspools in a different direction and Sherlock points his gun at John's head instead of at the PC who had cuffed them together and demands they be uncuffed from each other and then runs alone.

John is taken in, and spends five hours in a cell, begging Greg to let him go for the first 15 minutes of it. Greg's eyes look soft and sad and after 14 minutes leans in and tells him to stop talking, for his own good, and for Sherlock's.

After that Sally Donovan checks on him, and, surprisingly, doesn't say anything. Just looks at him with a similar mix of pity and disappointment. She looks exhausted and drawn and John can't find it in himself to blame her anymore for what's happened. He's not sure he should have in the first place.

Finally, he's let out into Anthea's capable hands when his bail is posted.

She's wearing the dress.

He has her drop him off three blocks from Bart's, and when Sherlock jumps he kneels beside Sherlock's ruined head and smoothes back his fringe. John's only been with him the once, the first time; he worries about all the Sherlocks that might have died alone, and he doesn't want that for this one. 

For him. For any of him.

"When are you going to stop running off without me?" John asks.

Sherlock looks at him with great effort, and his mouth moves, trying to form a word.

"You should be sorry," John says and smiles, "I've been down in lockup for hours, so who's had a worse night."

When Sherlock tries to laugh, blood spatters his mouth and chin.

"It's all right." John feels oddly calm; he doesn't want to get used to this. "It's all fine, I'm here now."

Sherlock's eyes slide closed and when they load him onto the gurney John lets them take him, Sherlock's blood soaking through the knees of his trousers.

*

"John, you're in shock."

"I want to see him."

Greg frowns. "Don't do this to yourself. Please. Let me take you home."

At the nurse's station, Mycroft is filling out paperwork. Anthea is next to him, her hand -- warm, John remembers -- on his shoulder.

The lights are too bright, the tea here is terrible, and John has probably been in shock for six days straight, if he's counting. "I want to see him."

Greg scrubs a hand over the crown of his head. "John, I just don't think..." he looks towards the nurses' station, and Anthea is looking at them. She nods, then turns back to Mycroft. 

Greg pushes out a breath and signals for Donovan. "Can you look after Mr. H--" he pauses, takes a breath. "Mr. Holmes. I'm taking John down."

Donovan frowns, her eyes red-rimmed from...what, exhaustion, guilt, too much caffeine.

John's not sure why, but he blurts, "It's not your fault."

Her expression is sad and hard and haggard and she looks him right in the eye -- the only one besides Greg who's been able to all night -- and says, "I know." Pauses, then: "I'm sorry, Dr. Watson."

John nods and she nods back.

It won't matter, John knows, to her tomorrow, when she wakes up and none of this has happened yet. But it matters to him.

He lets Greg steer him towards the morgue.

*

Molly is sitting on one of the metal benches outside the examination room when they come down. She's not crying, but all her features are drawn in on themselves, her mouth a bitten-red razor slash in her chalky face. 

"Molly," John says, and he's never come to see her, has almost forgotten her existence in all of this. "Molly."

She looks up at him.

He grabs her up and hugs her so hard he can feel her ribs creak. "I'm sorry I didn't come see you sooner," and that doesn't make any sense but he is sorry, god, how much guilt can he feel for every person in every timeline that needed him and he wasn't there.

She doesn't hug him back, just stands in the vise of his arms, holding her head up, her hands at her sides. 

"You shouldn't have to do this, Molly," Greg says from behind them. "Is there someone else we can call..."

"No," she says, and her voice sounds strange, flat. She pulls away.

John ducks his head to look at her. "Molly, hey..."

"I'm sorry, John," she says, with that same flatness. "I'm so sorry."

"Me, too," and he tries to smile comfortingly, "can't leave him alone for five minutes, eh?"

And then suddenly her features expand and then crumple and she's crying. "I'm so sorry, I should have said. I don't know what went wrong. He said he was going to die and he needed me to help him...not."

Dread crawls under his skin, freezes the smile into a grimace on his face. "Molly, what are you talking about?" 

"Sherlock, he--" Molly scrubs her hand under her nose. "He didn't want you to know. He said he arranged everything so he'd live through it."

"What," John says and stops. Because he must, because his voice leaves him.

"And I didn't question it because he's always so sure," she's saying and John thinks he says, "stop," but maybe not because Molly is still talking. "And he said you could never know."

John shakes his head, icy cold, metallic panic filling his mouth. "What--" his voice breaks and he starts again. "What are you saying."

"Sherlock," she says and they look at each other, "he said he needed to disappear. I was going to help him, after, when everyone else thought he was dead..."

The walls expand and contract around them and John feels the floor tilt gently. "I don't," he hears himself saying.

"He said you were in danger, he said he was a fraud," she goes on. "H-he said it was the only way, that you needed to think he was gone."

"John." Greg is there, holding his arm tight above the elbow. 

"I'm fine," he breathes and shakes him off. "No, this." He laughs, and it feels like a knife in his chest. "This only makes sense."

Almost two years of being forgotten at crime scenes, being forcibly shoved from cabs, and takeaway going cold on the counter because he never texted to say he wouldn't be home. Of course. Why would Sherlock tell him, when he could leave him behind instead.

John laughs again, and Molly flinches. 

And John had thought, he had thought, with Sherlock crouching in front of him, he had thought.

"He cared about you, John."

"Shut up!" he shouts and pushes the heels of his hands into his eyes. He breathes, just keep breathing, John. "I'm sorry, sorry, Molly, it's not your fault.

"It's just him, isn't it?" He looks towards the exam room and thinks of the body in there, the transport for Sherlock's brilliant, maddening brain. One day John will wake up on the other side of this day, and the pain of never seeing that transport again crashes like a wave against the realization that Sherlock meant to cause him it. He swallows against the lump in his throat. "It's just his fucking thick-headed way."

He covers his eyes for a moment and when he looks up again, Greg and Molly are both looking at the ground.

"I should..." John gestures. "I have to go."

Greg steps towards him. "I'll take you."

John holds up a hand and back away. "No, I. Can't."

"John."

But John walks briskly back up the stairs, past Mycroft, past Donovan, out onto the street and past where SCD is cordoning off the scene, setting out numbers, marking off distances, blood patterns, witnesses. 

He'll sleep. He'll go home and sleep and tomorrow he'll wake up and find a way to fix this and find a way to live with Sherlock's intent; there, John realizes, before John even had a fighting chance.

He hails a cab.

*

John stands in the doorway of the flat and looks at everything Sherlock's left undone -- a mug of ice-cold tea and a half-eaten piece of toast; the crushed mini camera; Sherlock's dressing gown, blue, the one with the hole in the sleeve, draped over a chair in the kitchen; half done experiments left mouldering on the counter, a chess set that John had bought, comandeered by Sherlock, midway through a game he says he was playing against a teenager in America, a stack of crosswords ripped out of the Times, the top one from yesterday (the first yesterday), three quarters of the way completed.

John picks up this last one, squinting at Sherlock's tiny, fastidious block letters. MORIARTY, he picks out, hidden among words like ANOA and ERATO and he laughs because instead he'll cry, and crossing that BACH. John's throat feels full and tight and he makes a fist, wads up the newsprint into a tight ball.

His belly feels like it's full of broken glass and he can't take a full breath without pain. He both hands on the table, jarring the chess set and crumpling more of the puzzles under his palms. 

Once he starts, he can't stop.

He smashes the chess set with a sweep of his arm, sending pieces scattering across the kitchen, tears up fistfulls of the puzzles, smearing newsprint into his palms. Sherlock's mug splinters when it hits the floor, the saucer following, as John upends the side table next to Sherlock's chair. He cuts himself, badly, when he brings a framed butterfly in a sharp arc against the side of the mantle, he tries to pry the jaw from Sherlock's skull, he _hates_ that skull, and when he can't do it because it's bolted on he throws it against the mantle, shattering the mirror above it. 

The lucky cat is next, crashing to the floor; John can't stand to hear its paw ticking and ticking and ticking, reminding him that Sherlock jumped, will jump, is always going to jump because what took John a week to work through Sherlock already had and Sherlock knew this is how it would end. And John somehow has to not only outthink an obsessive psychopath, but now he has to outthink the smartest, most arrogant man in the world, outthink a man who probably knows John better than he knows himself and it's _impossible_.

He tears the knife from the mantle, slivers of the mirrors stabbing into the fleshy part of his palm, and goes to work on Sherlock's chair, ripping the leather, bloodied fingers slipping and sliding on the knife handle, until it clatters to the floor and he pulls the stuffing from it with his hands instead.

He's pulling books from the bookshelves and trying futilely to rip them in half. He hates Sherlock, hates him so much that he can't stand anything that was his, wants to rip off his own skin, pour acid over his exposed flesh until he's just bones.

The violin. John can see it in its case on the desk.

He scrambles on hands and knees and fumbles at it, dragging it into his lap, his fingers catching on the strings. His hands are shaking as he stills the dissonant chord with his fingers on the neck, and he thinks of Sherlock that morning, framed in the front window, eyes closed, dark lashes against his cheeks, fine, strong bones of his wrist under thin, pale skin exposed where his dressing gown had slid back as he played, his hair limned red in the sun and John had felt something squeeze around his heart so tight that he felt it stutter, as he felt it stutter with Sherlock's coat in his hands, the length of his body radiating heat against his chest, as he feels it stutter now and then throb once, hard, so painful that John thinks he might be dying.

He grips the violin by it's neck in both hands.

"John." Greg forces his arms down and pries his fingers from the violin. "You'll regret that one day," he says quietly.

John turns and sees Greg is crouching behind him, setting the violin aside. Behind him, in the doorway, Mrs Hudson stands wringing her hands, her face deeply creased from crying.

"I," John starts and his voice breaks. 

Greg puts both hands on John's shoulders and hunches to look into his face. "He was a bastard, I know. And you'll wake up tomorrow and still hate him, and probably every day for a long time. But one day you'll wake up and you won't anymore."

But John knows he won't be able to, because he'll wake up tomorrow and have to go through this all again, and then the next day and the next day, only this time he'll know that Sherlock did it on purpose, left John behind -- didn't mean to die but meant to make it look like he did, meant to put John through this, meant for John to have to go on without him, for John to _hate_ him.

"I can't," John forces out, past the stone lodged in his throat, can't save him, can't wake up one more morning, can't get over him.

The stone of what John didn't say, what he still doesn't know how to say, grows so large he feels he might suffocate, and he tries to pull away. Greg has him in an iron grip.

"Don't doubt that he cared for you, John, in his own way." 

"Then _why_ ," John hears himself say, his voice -- could that be his voice? -- hoarse and ragged. 

"Maybe," Greg starts and then is silent for so long and John is so tired that when Greg starts again John is jerked out of almost sleep. "Maybe he wanted you to be able to move on."

"I'm so," John searches for words to express the grief and pain and betrayal, the deep down ache in his belly and the storm in his head, and can't. "I'm so fucking angry."

Greg sighs, pulls John in and hooks his chin over John's shoulder, and he feels warm and solid against him. "I know. I am, too."

"And I'm so tired," John breathes into Greg's shoulder, "I'm so tired." Greg makes an odd, pained sound. 

"D'you want me to stay?"

John shakes his head, breathes out and closes his eyes and lets Greg hold him, remembering Sherlock's cool, dry palm on the nape of his neck, Sherlock's breath on his face. 

All just transport.

And sleeps.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was, John decides, shaking out the sting in his knuckles, exactly what he needed. "You okay?"
> 
> Sherlock looks up at him and smiles thinly, holding out a hand. 
> 
> "You look just like your brother when you smile like that." John hauls him to his feet.
> 
> Sherlock straightens his t-shirt where it's twisted around his belly. "I trust you'll let me know in advance when you're planning on sucker punching him, too, so I can see it?

Downstairs, where John's destruction of the flat has been undone, Sherlock is playing the violin. 

It sounds sad and lovely and John closes his eyes and an almost satisfying pain spears through his chest and into his gut. 

John thinks of him: Sherlock in his blue robe, with his furrowed brow, and not quite black hair and not quite blue eyes. With always-cold hands, a stubborn streak to rival John's own, a sharply bowed mouth. Sherlock who considers him and forgets him in almost equal amounts, Sherlock, who's thoughtlessness can hurt him like he thought no one could anymore; Sherlock, who needs him without reserve and understands him without pity.

Sherlock, who is going to leave him. One way or another.

He has an incredible urge to punch something.

He scrambles out of bed, stumbles and bangs his shin (but not his head, good job, John), his heart hammering in his temples, and goes downstairs.

*

"Sherlock."

Sherlock doesn't stop playing until John comes up behind him and grabs his bow arm, digging his fingers into Sherlock's ropy bicep. The bow shrieks on the strings and Sherlock wrenches his arm out of John's hand.

" _Moody_ ," Sherlock drawls and John telegraphs it, just enough, before he punches Sherlock in the stomach. Upper abdomen, to be fair. And he definitely pulls it. Mostly.

Sherlock's abdomen feels like a brick wall, but still, he makes the most satisfying noise as the air is forcibly shoved out of him, and he sags into John's shoulder. John steps back and Sherlock goes to one knee, gasping in air.

It was, John decides, shaking out the sting in his knuckles, exactly what he needed. "You okay?"

Sherlock looks up at him and smiles thinly, holding out a hand. 

"You look just like your brother when you smile like that." John hauls him to his feet.

Sherlock straightens his t-shirt where it's twisted around his belly. "I trust you'll let me know in advance when you're planning on sucker punching him, too, so I can see it?" He coughs, squinting at his sheet music and making the motions of a pen in the air.

John scoops it off the floor and tosses it to him. "Surely you saw that coming?" he says as Sherlock makes a notation.

"They could see your telegraphing from space, John, don't be ridiculous."

"And yet you took it very badly, I couldn't help but notice."

Sherlock shrugs, clicking the pen and chucking it in the direction of the desk. It skitters off the top and rolls under the couch. "You seemed. Intent."

John laughs and scrubs a hand over the crown of his head. "And you were just...being accommodating."

Another of his louche shrugs as he sinks onto the couch. "It's been known to happen." He closes his eyes. "You must have had a good reason."

Adrenaline leaching out of him, John lowers himself gingerly onto the coffee table. "Sherlock."

Sherlock turns his head towards him.

John clears his throat. "We, ah. Something's happened."

"Tell me."

"It's. Hard to believe. Unbelievable as a matter of fact. But."

Sherlock's eyes are very blue today, John notices when he opens them. "Tell me," he says again.

So John does.

*

He knows he's leaving out details, and he's not got the case facts quite right, and he won't describe how it feels to be murdered, but he tells Sherlock the important bits. Moriarty. Sherlock's jump. Molly. Waking up every day and knowing more and still not being able to stop it. 

When John's run out of words, Sherlock has his fingers steepled beneath his chin. He turns his eyes up to the ceiling and is very quiet for a long time. 

John drums his fingers on the edge of the coffee table. 

"But did you hit me the last time?"

John bites his tongue a little. "Ah. No."

"Hm."

After five more minutes, John gets up and goes to his room to get dressed.

*

When he comes back down, Sherlock is also dressed and is in the kitchen, making tea.

John stands in the kitchen, watching him pour a splash of milk into John's mug and about half a kilo of sugar into his own. 

"Sherlock."

"I'm sorry," Sherlock says abruptly, slowly stirring his tea.

"It's." John hesitates. "Technically you haven't done anything yet."

The spoon clanks against the counter and Sherlock turns to look at him. "John. I'm sorry."

For something you didn't do, or something you didn't do yet, John doesn't ask, and nods, clearing his throat. "Good. That's...Thank you."

Sherlock looks at him for another moment and then sips his tea. "So," he says brightly. "What do we do first?"

*

Hours later, John is almost regretting his decision to tell Sherlock, because Sherlock is driving him mental.

"Sherlock," John says patiently, in the cab to the school where the ambassadors children were taken, "I can just tell you--"

"John, I've figured everything out how many times before?"

John bites his cheek. "Six."

"Six. So I can figure it out now."

"But you don't _need_ to--"

Sherlock turns to him and pins him with his laser stare. It makes John's insides twist in a very new way. "Yes, I do. If Moriarty suspects, the game is up and we'll have to start over tomorrow. 

"And besides. Here's the thing about me knowing already, John. I won't really make the same logic leaps I did yesterday, because I have foreknowledge. And so I'm seeing everything not as it is, but as you've told me it will be. Therefore, and here's the important bit, there's no way to know what triggered me figuring out Moriarty's plan. And furthermore no way to know how I put the pieces of my intended escape into place."

John looks at the red button hole on Sherlock's lapel for a moment, licks his lips. "But there's no reason for you to have to figure out your intended escape this time."

When John looks up at Sherlock again, Sherlock is looking out the window over John's shoulder. "Mm."

"Just promise me you'll make good decisions."

"Morally or--"

"Just. _Good_."

Sherlock sulks the rest of the ride.

*

In the lab with the sample of boot Sherlock has peeled from the floor of the school, John doesn't even pretend to look through photos. He sits impatiently next to Sherlock, while he and Molly list off compound names and latin roots at each other, and drums his fingers on the counter.

Suddenly, Sherlock slaps a hand over John's. John looks up in surprise and Sherlock just stares at him. 

"The keycode," John says. "I almost forgot, the keycode that Moriarty uses. Something about binary code and drumming my fingers..."

Sherlock looks at the ceiling. "Of _course_!" He drums out his own beat on the back of John's hand before shaking his head and going back to his microscope, his fingers squeezing John's briefly before sliding away.

Molly is looking at him with an odd expression and John smiles at her.

*

Standing on the kerb on Broadway outside New Scotland Yard, Sherlock looks just as disturbed at the little girl's scream as he had the first time. Probably because it _is_ the first time, at least for him. 

A cab approaches, and John steps up next to Sherlock as he flags it down. "You're not getting in that cab without me."

When Sherlock nods, John says, "You're getting in that cab without me, aren't you?"

Sherlock smiles, and slams the door in John's face.

One frantic cabride and one dead assassin later, they're back in 221B, and John puts a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Something happened on that cabride, didn't it."

Sherlock pulls away and goes to make tea. 

"We're fixing this. Right now, I'm fixing it."

"How?"

John blinks at Sherlock's back. "Well, I'm...getting you not to jump. That's the right direction, isn't it?"

"Of course."

Of course. Dread crawls under John's skin.

"Let's talk about something important," Sherlock says, "where did you say the camera was?"

*

"I said _good_ decisions, Sherlock!"

Sherlock pulls up short, wrenching John's arm up painfully when he frustratedly sweeps a hand through his hair. 

"Ow, dammit!"

"This was a perfectly logical decision."

"I didn't say logical. I said _good_."

Sherlock presses them back out of the alley as sirens blare past. "'Good' is so subjective, though. In fact, I'd say it's defined by it's subjectivity."

John rolls his eyes. "Obviously, I was referring to my definition of good."

"And this is why you really should be more precise in your word choices, John. Come on."

And then they're running again.

"Christ," John mutters as they round a corner into the alley partitioned by that damned fence, "not again."

*

"This is when I realized. Realize." 

They're standing in the middle of the street outside Kitty Reilly's, and Sherlock is pacing between streetlights.

"What Moriarty wants," John prompts. 

Sherlock's face is half in shadow. "That I'm going to die."

John clenches his hands into fists. "But you're not."

"I wasn't supposed to the first time, either. But why Molly?"

John doesn't know. He feels like he should, but he doesn't care about that. He doesn't care what Moriarty wants, he doesn't care what Sherlock's plan was, he just wants Sherlock not to jump.

"Let's go," he says roughly.

Sherlock tilts his head at him. "Where?"

"Back where it started."

*

The lab is dark and quiet, neither of them moving to turn on the light. John sits on a stool at the counter, his head pillowed in his crossed arms.

Sherlock sits next to him on the floor, his back to the counter cabinets, keeps bouncing that ball against the wall. "How much longer?" he asks quietly. 

John wipes a hand over his face. "Well, you arranged for the fake phone call, so you tell me."

The ball stops, caged in Sherlock's fist. "No, I didn't."

"Of course you did."

"Why would I?"

"Who else would? Who else needs me to leave the hospital so you can climb up on the roof?"

Sherlock blinks, then pulls out his phone. "You _really_ didn't think this through, did you?"

John shrugs expansively. "You're the genius. I'm just the arm candy."

Sherlock starts to laugh as he texts and, as always, it's contagious. 

"Wait, who are you texting?"

"Well, unless someone tells Moriarty where to look," he gives John a Significant Look that John chooses to ignore, "we'll be sitting here until Lestrade finds us first."

John's laugh dissolves slowly. "I've been letting this slide all day, but Sherlock, you're not really going up there to meet him."

Sherlock rolls his eyes, pushing himself to his feet gracefully. 

"No, no, Sherlock, you're not actually going."

"What else am I supposed to do, John? You said yourself it always pulls itself back on track."

John is shaking his head, sliding off the stool to block Sherlock from grabbing his jacket. "But this time, Sherlock, you don't have anything set up, you don't have a plan! You'd be...but if you don't go, you live!" 

"Correct. But that doesn't actually meet the criteria to stop the cycle."

John looks at him, uncomprehendingly.

"You have to solve Moriarty's final problem, John, _the_ final problem. If I were to simply survive the morning--"

"The story would find a way to pull itself back on track."

Sherlock hums approvingly.

"There must be another way," John says.

"There isn't. Why else are you and Moriarty the only two who remember every day? _You_ have to solve it, John, not me."

John chuckles ruefully. "This must be burning you up, huh?"

Sherlock mouth curls into one of his little smirky smiles. "I'll admit, it's not exactly doing wonders for my ego."

But there's a question that's been nagging at John for a week now: "Why me, though?"

There's a silence, and Sherlock's expression is less smirk and more smile when he says, "Because you really have no idea."

"I can't decide if that's an insult or not." John shakes his head and rubs his forehead.

"Not."

"Well, thanks, that's very helpful."

"You have no idea how to play his game. You just." He flaps a hand. "Are. You just do. Whatever John Watson thing you do. So he can't read you. You're...predictably unpredictable." 

John is nodding and nodding and it's quiet for a second. And then he says, "But _you_ can read me."

"Yes." He pauses. "Mostly."

John grins and shakes his head. "You must have at least known that there was no way I'd let you walk up to that roof alone. So we need a plan."

"We've already been over this--"

"And it all makes about as much sense as the week I've had, and I'm not playing by the rules anymore."

"There must be a reason I do it. Even if I survive today..." 

" _When_ you--"

Sherlock tsks. "Denial is unbecoming on you."

John can feel an unpleasant smile on his face. "And I so very much want to make sure I'm _becoming_."

"John, _think_. _Why_ would I do it? What could Moriarty have that would make me walk off the edge of a building? What, on this entire planet, would make me do such a thing, without putting up a fight?"

John thinks of Sherlock so calmly stepping out into nothing, Sherlock dropping off the edge without a sound. And he thinks, very suddenly, of the sniper, Moriarty's sniper, who looked almost like Sherlock and who John shot in the head without a second thought.

But who is alive again now.

"Oh," he says.

Sherlock ducks his head to look into John's face. "You know why."

"Moriarty has a gunman."

"A gunman."

"A sniper," John echoes Moriarty from days and days ago, "just for me."

Sherlock is nodding.

"It doesn't matter," John says.

"You must know by now that it does, of course. I'd jump off a twenty-storey building--"

"No."

"If I thought it would save you. I would."

"Stop," John says roughly.

Sherlock doesn't, of course. "I'd walk into the Thames with rocks in my pockets, set myself on fire."

" _Don't_. You don't mean this."

"I'd give up everything, John, the business, us, all of it." Sherlock has crowded him against the table and John can't look up at him, stares resolutely at the frantic pulse next to Sherlock's clenched jaw. "Happiness, comfort--"

"Stop it now, shut up, _shut up_ \--"

"--Companionship, my entire life--"

John pushes him away, hard, and Sherlock stumbles. "You already _do_ , you fucking _idiot_! You wanted to make me think you were dead! And I hate you for it! I don't care that you apologized because you're telling me you'd do it again!"

"You're worth that." Sherlock's breathing hard, stepping back into John's space. "You're worth ten of me."

"That's not your decision!" John puts his hands up but Sherlock presses in, putting his palms on the counter behind John. John's arms shake from trying to hold him back.

"It's _my_ life."

"No, Sherlock, it's _mine_!"

"So _you_ make a decision, John, right now," Sherlock's cheeks and throat are burning with a hectic flush, " _make one_."

John's hands fist in Sherlock's open collar, and then.

It's nothing like John had ever thought, probably because he hadn't let himself think. Sherlock's mouth against his, dry and warm and hard, his lips a little chapped, his palms cradling John's skull; Sherlock tips his head and John opens his mouth and now it's wet and warm, Sherlock's tongue sliding against his.

John is instantly hard. 

"John." Sherlock breaks away, his low baritone rolling across John's skin, sliding down his spine and making him shiver. 

"But you must have known I would do that," John husks.

Sherlock is petting the nape of John's neck a little, his eyes sliding over John's face, and down his throat. "No, not really."

"I thought you said you could read me."

"I said. Mostly."

John laughs. "Well, so you know, this, ah, is new." John smoothes his palms over Sherlock's shirt front, tries to arrange Sherlock's crushed collar in an attempt to do something with his hands. "Very new."

"Hm." Sherlock cups John's jaw with his palm, tracks his own thumb as he drags it across John's cheekbone. "The act or the urge?" He leans in, puts his nose against John's cheek and breathes in.

John's heart twists. "I mean, we've never..."

Sherlock laughs softly, and John closes his eyes as gooseflesh prickles across his shoulders at the damp heat of it on his neck. "And the urge?"

John turns his head and Sherlock's mouth smears across his, Sherlock's tongue curling in; John's heart pounds so hard it actually hurts.

Hands frame John's head, and Sherlock rounds his shoulders, his knees bracketing John's thighs. Sherlock _pushes_ against him and John groans when he feels Sherlock's prick hard against his own, the pressure on the edge of painful.

He hasn't felt this way since he was a teenager, like he could come from only having a foreign tongue in his mouth, from the heat of another body against his. Like he's having a ten minute orgasm in slow motion, and his dick just hasn't caught up yet. 

The voice in his head asking him _is this really happening_ is like an old friend he hasn't seen in years. 

He yanks the tails of Sherlock's shirt out from his trousers and he pushes his palms up Sherlock's ribs and Sherlock makes the smallest of noises into John's mouth, which could possibly be the hottest thing John has ever heard in his life. So he does it again, smoothes his palms down then back up, rubbing a thumb over Sherlock's left, erect nipple.

Sherlock is bending him backwards against the edge of the counter and John uses an elbow to Sherlock's sternum to give himself room, struggling to undo the buttons on Sherlock's shirt. And of course he's not wearing an undershirt, the bloody things are so tight, so when he gets to the fourth button his chest is a pale, slim slash that John leans in to bite before he can stop himself.

Sherlock grunts, yanks John's head up with one hand and shoves his tongue into his mouth. John's belt jangles when the fingers on Sherlock's other hand deftly undo it without even looking and John's brain just shorts out because those fingers _jesus christ_ they slip right into the open tab in his boxers and curl around his hard, hot prick.

John tears his mouth away and says, "oh, _god_ " and Sherlock laughs again, low and rich and rumbling and John has to grab his wrist to still his hand because asfter three firm pull of Sherlock's tight, damp fist he's _right fucking there_.

Sherlock nips his ear and says, like liquid, "John."

John dick jerks in Sherlock's hand and he honestly, really, is about to come in his pants; instead, he holds Sherlock back with a forearm against his belly. "Wait," he says.

Sherlock is breathing hard, his face blotchy with a flush and his mouth red and wet and puffy. His shirt hangs open and there's definitely a red mark where John's teeth had scraped over his pectoral and the front placket of his trousers is straining over what must be an impressive erection. His thumb smears over the head of John's prick and he says, "No."

"Fuck," John whispers as Sherlock's fist moves and he sprawls his thighs open, dragging Sherlock between them and fumbling his flies open. Sherlock is wearing black y-fronts, and John shoves them down so his prick spills out.

John licks his own palm and takes Sherlock into it, pulling him the way John himself likes it, hard and slow. 

John was wrong. Now Sherlock makes the hottest sound John has ever heard, his mouth pressed to John's temple, a bitten off whine that vibrates through John's skull. 

He needs this. Needs to unwind this hot, confused coil of want, untangle it from every awful day that came before.

His strokes stutter and start because Sherlock twists his palm around John and he's suddenly, "I'm--", and stars bloom against John's eyelids when the coil unspools all at once, warmth striping John's wrist where it works around Sherlock.

"oh," Sherlock says, almost in surprise, and John opens his eyes to see Sherlock's screwed shut, his mouth parted and John leans up to kiss him as he comes, his whole body shaking.

Their mouths go slack against each other and John sags back against the counter. Sherlock opens his eyes and suddenly he's laughing and laughing as his twists his hand out from John's pants and just manages to catch himself before his clearly shaky legs buckle under him. John turns to hunch over the edge of the counter to try to avoid his dick touching anything. He can't stop the laugh that bubbles up from his chest. He presses his forehead to the cool metal and laughs until tears prick his eyes.

He's always been able to ignore what's not right in his face. And now here's Sherlock. In his face. All the time, every day, every minute. Until he won't be anymore. 

"Tomorrow," John says to the counter, wiping his hand on his thigh, doing up his flies and buckling his belt. "Tomorrow you won't remember this." 

He turns and Sherlock is sitting on a lab stool, a wet spot on his trousers, his shirt still open; his eyes crinkle at the edges. "I'm a quick study, I'm sure I'll catch up." 

John doesn't say anything, just stares at some point over Sherlock's shoulder.

"John."

"I can't let you do this," he blurts. "It's too hard now."

He looks back and Sherlock has the strangest expression on his face, sad and angry all at once.

"Won't it be harder for you?"

"No." Sherlock stands, buttoning his shirt crisply, efficiently. "Quite the opposite in fact." He shrugs on his jacket.

John is silent, watching Sherlock tug his shirt cuffs down in two sharp jerks each. "I don't understand."

Sherlock's smile is genuine, if strained, when he says, "Today, yesterday, last week. It's all the same, John." John breathes in deeply, holds it in his lungs, and then Sherlock turns away.

"When the call comes, go home and stay there."

John blinks. "What? Why?" 

From his jacket pocket, Sherlock draws out a little black cylinder; the wifi camera they had found in the flat. "You have to figure it out, John. But that doesn't mean I can't help you."

John nods and clears his throat. "I--yeah, okay." He looks up at Sherlock. "How will you know what to say? Moriarty will know you know if the script isn't the same."

Sherlock waves a hand impatiently. "Well I know what I _would_ say, don't I, John? I'll just say that."

"Oh, of course. How is it that I'm the one who knows today like the back of my hand and yet I'm still two steps behind you?" 

Sherlock holds out his coat. "All is as usual, a sign that the universe still runs on some logic."

"And as usual, you're just hilarious." John's about to say something about seeing him after, even if just for a moment, and it's as though Sherlock can read his mind.

"I mean it, John, don't come back. I don't want you to see me. Like that." He pauses, takes a breath. "Think of me like this instead."

"Sherlock--"

"John for godssakes--"

John lunges forward and kisses Sherlock, clumsily, sloppily, until he can't breathe, winding his fingers into Sherlock's hair. He's been desperate to for days; he can't believe they jerked each other off and John almost let him go without getting a hand into that hair. 

In his back pocket, John's phone rings.

They're both gasping when they break apart and John scrabbles for his phone. He looks up at Sherlock and Sherlock nods.

He answers.

He's not sure what he says as the voice on the other end informs him that Mrs. Hudson's been shot. Probably reading from the same script Sherlock will be later. When he hangs up, John can only hear his own labored breathing echoing against the tiled walls.

Twenty things that John wants to say clog his throat.

Sherlock's phone pings.

Before he can say something he'll regret, John grabs his coat from Sherlock's slack fingers and slams out of the lab.

*

In the cab, John watches the morning haze burn away to leave the sky a greyish-blue. Might rain later, he thinks, feels a twinge in his shoulder.

He thinks of Sherlock saying it's all the same. Today, yesterday. It gives him that same spear of pain he felt when he woke up this morning to poke at the thought. Because kissing him doesn't make John care for Sherlock any more or any differently than he did yesterday, the first yesterday, or forty yesterdays ago. This is how he's felt from the start, he just didn't think about it overly much.

This is why you always liked to ignore things, he thinks. But he's well-past wondering if he was ever really any better for it.

John Watson, he thinks, as the cab pulls on Baker Street, what an idiot you are.

*

Back at 221B, John takes the stairs two at a time.

"You boys get everything sorted?" Mrs. Hudson calls after him.

"Working on it!" John calls back as he slams the door behind him.

Sherlock's laptop is open on the desk, where Sherlock had sat the night before. It's on, but the screen is asleep, and John swipes a shaking hand over the trackpad to wake it up, waits the longest 15 seconds of his life before the screen comes to life. 

There's a black rectangle on the screen, the camera program still running, but there's no feed. Normally, he would start randomly clicking on things, but normally that leads to Sherlock needing to step in and fix the mess he's made; He can barely maintain his own website, let alone hack into a protected network.

"Sherlock, come _on_ ," he mutters, shaking the screen with both hands. A piece of paper flutters to the desk -- a post-it, knocked loose from the laptop's lid.

In Sherlock's loose, slanted scrawl, is written: COMMAND + F5

John laughs with relief and cracks his knuckles, following Sherlock's instructions. 

And then, suddenly, he can hear them. 

"You're insane," Sherlock says, as though through layers of wool.

"You're just getting that now?" Moriarty's voice sounds mirthful and John's legs twitch as keeping still in his chair.

And then Moriarty actually does laugh, breathlessly, staticky as the screen pixelates for a moment. John suddenly realizes he's not looking at a blank screen, he's looking at the inside of Sherlock's pocket. "Okay," Moriarty says, "Let me give you some extra incentive."

He clenches his hands on the edge of the desk.

"You're friends will die if you don't."

"John," Sherlock breathes and John's knuckles go white.

"Not just John. Everyone."

"Mrs. Hudson." John closes his eyes.

" _Everyone._ "

"Lestrade." 

"Three bullets; Three gunmen; Three victims. There’s no stopping them now."

There's movement and John wishes he could see, feels a hot coil of rage winding his muscles too tight. He imagines himself tucked up in Sherlock's pocket, a grenade waiting for his pin to be pulled.

"Unless my people see you jump," Moriarty goes on. "You can have me arrested, you can torture me, you can do anything you like with me, but nothing’s gonna prevent them from pulling the trigger. Your only three friends in the world will die. Unless..."

Sherlock's breath is raspy and labored and John's never heard him like this. "Unless I kill myself," he grinds out, "complete your story."

"You’ve gotta admit," Moriarty drawls, "that’s sexier."

"And I die in disgrace."

"Of course. That’s the _point_ of all this! And oh, you’ve got an audience now. Off you pop.

"Go on," Moriarty urges gently. "I told you how this ends. Your death is the only thing that’s gonna call off the killers. _I’m_ certainly not gonna do it."

Not yet, John thinks, he doesn't understand yet. The final problem. He doesn't remember standing up.

"Stayin' Alive" blares when Moriarty's phone rings, and the sound cuts for a moment, crackles and pops as the signal is disrupted. Feedback screeches through the speakers and then Moriarty starts to laugh. "Oh, boys, _boys_. Ha-llo? Mm, and he's still there?" 

"John," Sherlock says, calmly, and John feels something scratching at the tip of his brain, something Sherlock has connected that he hasn't. 

"Do it," Moriarty says and John thinks suddenly of Mrs. Hudson, of the man with the tattoos downstairs. And the men in the packet of photos Mycroft had given him a week ago.

He shoves his shoulder against the door just as a weight hits it from the other side, rattling his teeth in his skull.

"You cheated, John," Moriarty says, his voice suddenly very loud, "you can't check your work against the other boys'." 

There's the distinct sound of a pistol slide being racked and John hits the ground, hands over his head, just as a bullet punches through the door.

The door cracks, the gunman enters gun first, and John wedges himself against it, traps the man's arm and leans all his weight on it before sliding back to let the door swing suddenly open. The gun is pointing down when it goes off again, the bullet embedding itself in the floor as John uses the gunman's forward momentum to swing himself up and smash the point of his own forehead into the gunman's temple.

The man crumples, all his strings cut, and he sprawls onto the floor. 

"Mrs. Hudson," John croaks, blinking white stars from his vision. Sherlock, he thinks, and yells, "Mrs. Hudson!" He staggers to the desk, claws at the computer.

Moriarty is there, waiting for him. "Jo-ohn," he's singsonging into the camera, "If you're still alive, Johnny, you're going to be in so much trouble tomorrow." He swings the camera around to show Sherlock, standing on the edge of the roof, staring back at him. "Unless..."

"Sh-sher..." John slurs and Mrs. Hudson calls up the stairs, "John, are you all right?"

"P-police!" John manages and Mrs. Hudson calls back, "Already done."

"Well, Sherlock," Moriarty is still behind the camera. "We're all waiting."

"No," John breathes and Sherlock smiles and falls back, into the open air.

The camera moves until there's nothing to see but sky, and then John is falling, too, sky, ground, and brick tumbling end over end until the feed cuts.

John lets himself slide to knees and elbows, his forehead against the cool hardwood as he gags. His head is splitting, his insides feel hot and dry, twisting into knots as his body tries to be sick. 

Mid-morning sun slants in between the curtains, falls over the lump of assassin laying in their sitting room.

Get hold of yourself, John, and he pushes his aching body up. Get hold of yourself and _think_.

In the bathroom he splashes cold water on his face. He thinks he's given himself a concussion, but the ringing in his ears might be from the bullets and the nausea might be from seeing Sherlock...

From the bathroom he lets himself into Sherlock's room instead of back out into the hall, and he crawls miserably into Sherlock's bed, cool sheets against his burning skin.

The ringing in his ears drowns out anything else, and it finally lulls him into unconsciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got dialogue from the episode from the invaluable work [Ariane DeVere](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com) has done [transcribing Reichenbach](http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/30648.html).


End file.
